


Across the Miles

by nowwhateinstein



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Anasazi, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowwhateinstein/pseuds/nowwhateinstein
Summary: As the distance between them and DC increases, the gravity of what has happened - and the uncertainty of what lies ahead - begins to sink in.





	Across the Miles

Seventeen hours. That’s how long she’s been driving. The adrenaline rush that catapulted her through Virginia and most of Tennessee has worn off, replaced by a dull feeling of dread that’s as constant as the hum of the highway beneath her wheels. As an intern, she could easily handle a thirty-six hour shift on nothing but coffee and the occasional cat nap in the coffin-sized on-call room at Johns Hopkins. _But the road is not a hospital, and you’re not twenty-four anymore, Dana_ , she reminds herself bitterly, pressing on the accelerator to push Mulder’s Ford Taurus up to seventy miles per hour. _You’ll have to stop and rest, eventually_. She glances over at the road atlas that lays open on the passenger seat beside her. Little Rock appears to be halfway between Alexandria and western New Mexico, and they’re a couple of hours away from there. At least they’re making good time.  
They pass through Memphis, across the Mississippi River, and into Arkansas. She finds a pair of Mulder’s sunglasses in the glove box. They’re too large for her face, but they do the trick of reducing the glare of the late afternoon sun as it sinks slowly towards the western horizon. The river is a golden, shimmering ribbon, reminding her of lazy summer evenings spent fishing with her siblings and father along the waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Her dad would spend hours patiently instructing his daughter on the art of casting a line, his large hands on hers as they practiced the rhythmic motion of bringing the rod up, back, forward, then out, letting the line soar over the water. The memory of Ahab causes her breath to catch in her throat. What would he think, if he knew his daughter was on the run after shooting her own partner, in possession of stolen government files - to say nothing of the fact that she faces censure, possibly even dismissal, from the FBI?  
_I’m sorry, Dad_ , she thinks, lifting the glasses to wipe away the tears that suddenly blur her vision. _I know this isn’t what you imagined or wanted for me_.  
_Both of our fathers are dead now_ , she thinks, glancing behind her to where Mulder lies across the back seat in a deep sleep. She wonders if grief stalks his dreams.  
When he’d arrived at her apartment - incoherent, bloodstained, and barely able to stand unaided - she was shocked enough to forget that he’d just witnessed his father’s death. He’d barely had time to mourn him, she now realizes.  
Then the shooting happened, and everything went to hell. She’d just managed to drag Mulder to his car, retrieve the encrypted files from her vehicle, and peel out of Hegal Place before the red and blue lights of the Alexandria Police Department came into view.  
Now, as the distance between them and DC increases, the gravity of what has happened - and the uncertainty of what lies ahead - begins to sink in. Their only chance of redemption lies a thousand miles away, with a man whom neither of them have met. A man who, even though he agreed to it, may not be able to help them decipher the files. Even worse, she thinks as she checks the rearview mirror for what must be the hundredth time for any sign of pursuit, they could be heading into a trap.  
She pushes her fear down and tries to focus on what she can control. She reaches behind her and finds Mulder’s carotid artery with two fingers. His pulse is weak, but steady. Her hand then moves to his chest, and she’s reassured by the gentle rising and falling she feels. The diazepam she gave him in back in Virginia seems to be working. She’ll need to change his bandage and give him another dose eventually, but for now, they need to keep moving.  
They’re several hours into Oklahoma when exhaustion finally forces her off the interstate and into a deserted parking lot. She glances at the her watch: 2:08 AM. Two hours of rest, no more than that, she tells herself. Before she can sleep, however, she needs to tend to her patient.  
She opens the back passenger door and kneels on the pavement. The rough asphalt digs painfully into her knees through her thin polyester pants, briefly sharpening her sleep-deprived senses.  
"Mulder. Wake up. Come on, Mulder, just for a moment."  
His eyes flutter, and he mumbles incoherently. She makes out her name: “Scully.”  
"Yeah, it's me. I'm here."  
He’s sweaty and hot to the touch, and she worries that the wound has become infected. She pours some water onto a handkerchief and places it on his forehead, then proceeds to examine the bullet wound. The area around the wound is bruised, but thankfully she sees no other signs of infection - a small mercy. It had been a clean shot; the bullet passed through skin and muscle without hitting the subclavian artery.  
His fever is most likely a lingering effect of whatever it was They added to his building’s water supply, and would go away in time. She cleans the wound and replaces the bandage with supplies from her surgical kit.  
"Take this,” she says, putting a pill in his mouth. “Try to drink a little water."  
She holds his head up and lifts a water bottle to his lips. He manages to swallow the diazepam and take in a few sips before he starts to cough weakly.  
“He’s dead,” he says after a few moments, his voice breaking. Tears run down his fevered face. “He’s dead, Scully.” Mulder’s raw grief, compounded by her exhaustion, threatens to engulf her.  
_Keep it together_.  
“Shhh,” she says, and takes the cloth from his forehead, gently wiping his tears while struggling to keep back her own. “You need to rest, Mulder.” The fingers of her free hand move softly through his sweat-matted hair in an attempt to soothe him. “Try to sleep.”  
She continues to stroke his head in tender circles until the diazepam begins to take effect. Within minutes, Mulder is asleep, his anguish once more submerged in the deep well of unconsciousness.  
Shakily, she rises from the asphalt and shuts the car door. She’s aware of how quiet and still everything is; the only sounds she can hear is her own breath and the distant hooting of an owl. The moon hangs large and full above the trees, its yellow glow the only visible light in any direction. In this moment, it seems like she’s the only person alive on Earth; even Mulder, lying inches from her, feels a million miles away.  
This time, as the enormity of what they’re facing once again washes over her, she doesn’t fight her tears.  
In the morning, she calls Albert Hosteen from a pay phone and arranges for him to meet them at a motel in Farmington that afternoon. She doesn’t mention Mulder’s condition, for fear of further compromising their already vulnerable position.  
A tall man with long grey hair is standing outside the lobby when she pulls into the parking lot of the Cozy Cactus Motor Lodge. She realizes this must be Albert Hosteen.  
She gets out of the car to shake his hand. “Mr. Hosteen, I’m Dana Scully. We spoke on the phone.”  
Albert nods in response, his eyes moving to where Mulder lies in the backseat. “Your partner is sick,” he says, taking in Mulder’s condition.  
“Yes, he’s been shot,” she says, then more quietly, “I shot him.”  
Albert looks at her without the faintest trace of surprise or judgement, but rather with somber empathy, as if he’s familiar with the tragic circumstances that could bring someone to deliberately shoot their partner. In his gaze, she can feel her apprehension begin to subside.  
“I’ll help you get him into the room,” he offers.  
Albert is surprisingly strong for his age; he carries the bulk of Mulder’s weight and together, they deposit him gently onto the bed.  
He lifts the bandage and examines the wound. “You’re a good shot,” he says, smiling at her. She manages a small one of her own in response.  
“I would like to pray over him, if you don’t mind.”  
She recalls the woman at the Navajo Nation Office mentioning that Albert was a medicine man. Still, she’s surprised - and touched - at this gesture from a virtual stranger.  
Albert gently takes Mulder’s hand in both of his, then pulls out a small pouch that hangs from a leather strap around his neck. From it, he takes a pinch of bright yellow powder - pollen of some sort, she thinks - which he proceeds to sprinkle on Mulder’s forehead. He sings in Navajo as he does this, his voice soft but steady as it rises and falls in a mesmerizing cadence.  
After a few minutes, he pauses and gestures for her to stand next to him. Hesitatingly, she complies, Albert taking her hand in a strong, warm grip as he resumes his singing. He takes another pinch of the pollen and gives her a dusting of her own. The pollen tickles as it falls upon her face and for a moment, she forgets the fear and worry that have trailed her across the country like shadows.  
After he’s finished, he turns to her. “Now, I’m ready to look at those files.”  
She hands him the papers, which he thumbs through thoughtfully. “It will take a while for me to translate this,” he says, looking up at her. “You have had a long journey out here. You should get some rest.”  
His words bring an awareness of just how exhausted she is. She could get another room, but she’s reluctant to leave Mulder in case he wakes or his condition worsens.  
“Your partner won’t wake for several hours,” Albert says, as if reading her thoughts. “I don’t think he will mind if you sleep beside him.”  
She nods tiredly.  
“I will be next door if you need me.”  
His hand is on the doorknob when he turns back to her. “He’s lucky to have a partner like you,” he says, before stepping out into the dusky New Mexico evening.  
She moves to sit on the edge of the bed, kicking off her shoes and letting them lie where they fall on the green shag carpet.  
She gives Mulder a brief exam before settling in beside him. His breathing is steadier, more normal, now than back in Oklahoma. His fever is gone, too. She knows both things are due to attentive medical care and the passage of time, but a small part of her - the same part that still obliges her to wear her cross necklace, even though she no longer attends church regularly - wants to ascribe his improvement to Albert’s prayers. She reaches for Mulder’s hand and offers her own silent prayer of thanks. For him. For delivering them across the miles to a place that - for now, at least - is a shelter in the eye of the storm.  
“Scully.” In his dreaming, he says her name softly, almost whispering.  
“Yeah,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I’m here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes:  
> 1) Many thanks to @lilydalexf for being a fantastic beta! I highly recommend you check out her stuff, if you haven't already.  
> 2) Albert Hosteen’s prayers are based on what is portrayed in the series and supplemented by the author’s research of Navajo (Diné) rituals, and is no way intended to be representative of actual Navajo spiritual practices.


End file.
